


The Book of Nein

by The_Disaster_Tiefling (Akiko_Natsuko)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Adventure, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canonical Character Death, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fantasy, Found Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Magic, Memories, Multi, Nightmares, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 23:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18980992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/The_Disaster_Tiefling
Summary: Deep within the Ashkeeper Peaks, nestled within the shadow of the highest peak, the few travellers that pressed this far into the mountains would be surprised to come across the teetering tower built into the rockface. It is here that the Keeper lives, a mysterious being who stands guard over the history of Exandria, keeping alive the stories and songs of the past.An eternity after they began as a disparate group at the edge of the Empire, and long after circumstances had forced them to become something more, the Might Nein has become a legend. As irrevocably woven into the history of the world as Vox Machina, and this is their tale.





	The Book of Nein

  

    Deep within the Ashkeeper Peaks, nestled within the shadow of the highest peak, the few travellers that pressed this far into the mountains would be surprised to come across the teetering tower built into the rockface. Many missed it, mistaking it for one of the narrow, winding rises of rock that dominated the area, but the more discerning would spy light amongst the dark rock, candlelight that played against glass late into the evening, or the odd wisp of smoke in the depths of winter. Even rarer were those who had come seeking out this very tower, braving the long journey, and the perils of coming so close to Xhorhas, all chasing a rumour.

A myth.

A legend.

    No one quite knew where the story had come from, or when it had crept into the songs and tales that were sung and shared across Wildemount. It didn’t matter what tongue you spoke, or whether you hailed from the Menagerie coast, the Greying Wildlands or any land in between, nearly all had heard the whispers of the Keeper. It was said, that the Keeper had been there since the beginning, from the days of the Divergence, watching and recording all that happened across Exandria. Others whispered in fearful voices, and with hands on weapons that they were a relic of the Calamity; while others chose to believe the Keeper was the voice of the Gods, a mortal form given immortality so that the Gods’ words would pass down across the generations. There were also claims that the Keeper was little more than a creation of the bards, another tool in their arsenal to keep the history of the lands alive, to make sure that the songs and stories kept being shared.

    There was little in the way of consensus, with that, or within the debate of who or what the Keeper was. Some argued that the Keeper had lived many lives, across many races and times, and now belonged to none and all.

There were few who knew the truth.

     Those who did were those who had made the journey at one time or another, following the perilous, winding path that led up to the hidden tower. All came bearing gifts. Not those favoured by most, for the Keeper had little interest in those. No, the gifts they bore were stories – real and imagined of the lands they’d come from, or new songs penned by the latest generation of bards, and the everyday chatter and tales of people from the lowliest peasant to the highest noble.

    All were greeted with an open door, which leads through into narrow hall, lit by a single, grand light in the shape of a dodecahedron that spun and shimmered in the centre of a spiralling staircase that led up, and up, until it seemed to pass out of sight. There was no other path to take but the stairs, and there were whispers that some who had entered with impure hearts had found themselves caught on those same stairs, glimpsing the world outside, and rooms full of books and treasures with no way to reach them all. Those unfortunate souls would reappear years later, wandering through the Ashkeeper Peaks, physically no older than they’d been when they’d entered the tower, but old in soul, haunted by the knowledge they glimpsed but never touched.

     Those who sought knowledge, or to delve into the tales of the world, would find the climb hard and long, the light seeming to rise with them, guiding their path. They would pass doors, some ornately carved and decorated with the most delicate gold filigree, symbols and names in a dozen tongues carved into the wood. Others seemed to be a work in progress, the trailing decoration incomplete, as though waiting for something else to happen, while others were plain wood, and handleless, as though there was nowhere to go. Those who tried the handles would find themselves lost for a few minutes, caught in a dizzying rush of images and sound that few could make sense of, and when they were released, it was with the impression that they had touched something not meant for mortal hands, but even they were allowed to continue.

    Following the path of the stairs, until finally, they opened up into a strangely cavernous room that felt as though it had no place in the narrow tower. Here the light came from hundreds of candles floating in midair, burning brightly regardless of the time of day when they’d entered, and if they looked out the window, they would see the night sky and an endless curtain of stars. The warm light gave the room a golden cast, and if they looked at the floor, it would seem that the wood was alight, the light glistening on delicate lines engraved in the wood. It was a map. The contours and lines of Exandria mapped out beneath their feet, never visible in its entirety, as the candles cast shadows on certain points and a glow as bright as the sun on others.

    Yet even that, as breathtaking as it was, paled in comparison to the bookcases that lined the walls of the room. They rose to the ceiling, high enough to tower even the tallest Goliath, their heights reachable by ornate ladders that were propped periodically along the length of the wall. At the very top, frescos were set into the wood, some showed the events that had shaped their world, the glimpse of long-forgotten battles and beings, enough to lend weight to the whispers of the Keeper’s immortality. While others showed heroes, figures from the history of Exandria. And many would find their eyes lingering on those figures, recognising them from the songs and tales that were their legacy, from the feathered figure flying high above a solitary figure beneath a Golden tree. To the colourful character stood tall within the light of the moon, twin blades spread as though in offering.

     Below these works of art, were shelves upon shelves of books. Here, there was no missing the age of this place, because these books were old. Leatherbound tombs, nestled amongst simpler, smaller texts, and jammed in gaps between them were piles of parchment scrolls, and if there was any order to the collection, it was known only to their owner. What titles could be made out against faded reds and browns, or bright against blue and green, were in a multitude of tongues, and varied in topic from the histories of the Dwendalian Empire to the cultivation of grain and the fine art of Alchemy. Between these and jammed onto shelves in a chaotic display of colour were various trinkets and treasures, some were odd, fancy buttons and a copper baby bottle, while others let off a clear magical aura even at this range.

    And there in the very back, in a deep, blood red chair next to a fire that burned merrily within the confines of an ornate fireplace, there was movement. It was subtle. The rustle of velvet, and the softest of breath, and many were caught off guard when the hooded figure would rise from the chair and move towards them. There was no way to see their face, even as the candles that seemed to have burned no lower despite the minutes that had passed illuminated them as they seemed to glide forwards. And the most observant would notice that the map on the floor would glow as the figure passed, a tinkling sound accompanying each step, as though the map itself was singing its stories to the figure.

“Welcome.” The voice when it came was nothing like they had imagined, soft, and yet impossible to miss in the quiet. It was impossible to determine what gender the speaker was, and some would argue that it sounded almost like a song, a musical amalgamation of the languages and dialects of the world, coming together in a lilt that captured all that heard it. “Welcome to the archives of Exandria.” The face was hidden, and yet there was the impression of eyes watching, a gaze that saw far too much and carried the weight of great age. “Tell me, traveller, what story is it that you seek? I have them all here.” The figure gives a broad sweeping gesture that incorporates both the books around them, but the tower as a whole, leaving the impression that the collection here is but the tip of the iceberg, a tantalising promise for those few who had made it this far.

     For many, there was never a chance to offer a reply, as between the blink of an eye and the flicker of a candle the Keeper would move. Hands reaching out to clasp the traveller’s between them, a breeze dancing through the room and whipping the flames of both candles and fire to a frenzy, and the feeling of the ancient gaze would intensify. Bringing with it the sensation of feathers brushing against thoughts, before the Keeper chuckled, soft and slow before stepping back. “I see, it has been a long time since anyone has sought the tale of the Nein, which is a shame, as it was always one of my favourites…”

**Author's Note:**

> An idea I'd been toying with for a while, and finally decided to actually put onto paper (well computer screen lol)


End file.
